Rodriquez was thirty-six years old, but looked much older. His dark Latin features were heavily lined and his hair streaked with more gray than most men his age. His nose was flat and his ears betrayed a hint of cauliflower. His climb out of the Los Angeles barrio had taken a toll, but it was a toll he had been willing to pay. Spaceflight was the payoff. He was in orbit, and anxious to return to the SDI platform. He hadn't seen it for nine months and was fiercely excited at the prospect of, in a sense, laying the final brick. By now the orbiting station should have taken on its full hexagonal shape. Powered by a nuclear reactor, the platform was surprisingly small and manned by a crew of thirty-two who were in the final phase of teching out and debugging the systems. When it was finally operational, so the scuttlebutt went, the platform could truly negate much of the nuclear arsenal of the Soviet Union. Much earlier than anyone could have dreamed just a few years ago.
Funny, he thought, that something so staggeringly powerful would have to rely on two relatively small parts to make it all work.
"Lookin' good, General," opined the bespectacled duty officer. "She's through lift-off and initial OMS burn in good shape. Not much that could go wrong now. She'll be back on the runway at Vandenberg in forty-eight hours — if the weather holds."
"How long till their next OMS burn?" asked Whittenberg.
The duty officer peered at his time-lapse clock. "Thirty-eight minutes, twenty-three seconds to the next burn, sir."
CSOC at Falcon Air Force Station outside Colorado Springs was several miles away from Cheyenne Mountain, but its activities were also Whittenberg's responsibility. However, even with his lofty rank, the CinC couldn't be in two places at the same time, so he monitored shuttle missions through the Space Defense Operations Center inside the granite fortress.
"Okay, I'm going to get some coffee and go back to my office," said Whittenberg. "If anything, and I mean anything, turns into a hitch, I want to know about it yesterday. Got that?"
"Yes, General," replied the duty officer.
"Pete, would you mind hanging around and keeping an eye on things until they dock with the platform?" It was Whittenberg's polite way of giving an order.
"Be glad to, sir," said Lamborghini.
The general said, "Thanks," and walked out of SPADOC.
"What's with him this morning?" asked the duty officer. "He's been pacing up and down like his wife was having triplets."
Lamboighini patted the young captain on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it, son. When you get your fourth star, you'll understand."
"Ignition!" ordered Iceberg.
Mulcahey pressed the red button and the OMS rockets fired in another timed burn, inserting the Intrepid into low earth orbit.
"Okay, Jerry," said Mulcahey. "We're gettin' in the groove now. A coupla more burns and we're up to the platform." Executing a rendezvous with an orbiting object that was 430 miles high and traveling at 17,000 miles an hour had to be taken in stages, with deftness and skill.
"Rodriquez," intoned the Iceberg, "see to the doors."
"Roger… sir." Rodriquez had decided he didn't like Kapuscinski. Didn't like him at all. He truly was a real cold bastard. But never mind about that now. There was work to do. Rodriquez unplugged his intercom cord and shoved it into the pocket of his flight suit. The crew areas of the shuttle were environmentally controlled, and the astronauts did not wear the pressurized space suits during lift-off — only the light blue coverall flight suit and a crash helmet.
Rodriquez unbuckled his harness and giggled as he floated out of his chair, weightless. Mulcahey knew what the feeling was like and laughed, too. Whatever the rigors of astronaut training, they all became worth it when you floated totally free from gravity for the first time.
Rodriquez gently propelled himself to the aft crew station, where he slipped his flight boots into special shoe clips. The simple anchoring device would prevent him from drifting away while he operated the workstation controls. The aft crew station was U-shaped, with a battery of instruments, switches, and buttons. Rodriquez powered up the electronics, then peered out the window into the cargo bay. It was pitch-black. He flipped a safety switch and moved a lever marked crg by drs from cls to opn. There was a hum, then a slight vibration as the latches slipped back and hydraulic pistons engaged, pushing the 33-foot doors open. What greeted Rodriquez was a spectacular sight— the earth's azure horizon against a jet-black background. Had he not been weightless his knees would have buckled, for the scene always left him awestruck — and reminded him what a long hard climb it had been from his impoverished youth to this window on the earth.
The skin of the shuttle became extremely hot from air friction during launch, so the inside panels of the cargo bay doors were lined with radiators which, when the doors opened, dissipated the heat buildup. Without a timely venting of the heat, the life-support system would be unable to keep the cabin cool.
"CSOC, this is Intrepid. Cargo bay doors are open and secure," radioed Iceberg.
"Roger, Intrepid. Your next OMS burn is in ninety-three minutes. Enjoy the ride. Out."
Iceberg stared out the window at the Indian Ocean. A small bead of perspiration from his upper lip broke free and floated in front of his eyes. He deftly caught it between his thumb and forefinger and mashed it. His heart was racing, so he took a long, slow breath to quiet the thumping in his chest. In a sense, the Iceberg was melting…
It had been such a long journey for him. So very, very long to reach his elusive grail. Many times he had questioned himself. Questioned his purpose. Questioned his own resolve. Questioned why he had to lead such a sterile existence. But for each question she had had an answer. When he wavered, she was firm. When he cried, she had consoled him. Wait… be patient… the time will come, one day. You are not to question, she admonished him. You are to obey. It is your duty. And he was never able to disobey her.
He unzipped the breast pocket of his flight suit and took out the picture. The face that stared back at him possessed hard, stern Slavic features.'But there was a trace of softness in her brown eyes, penetrating eyes that had evoked the only deep emotions Kapuscinski — the "Iceberg" — had ever known. And as incredible as it might seem, the events that propelled him into the left seat of this spacecraft had started with her, almost fifty years ago.
Mulcahey craned his neck to peek at the photograph in Kapuscinski's hand. "Say, Beig? Uh, mind if I ask, who is that?"
Iceberg did not look at his copilot but instead continued to stare at the worn picture. "It is my mother," he replied softly.
Mulcahey almost said, "I didn't know you had a mother," but caught himself before it slipped. Instead, he commented, "Oh — I don't recall you ever mentioning her."
A pause.
"She died. When I was nineteen… I was in my second year at the academy.''
"I see," said Mulcahey, but he didn't, really. He was just trying to be polite. But the sight of Iceberg gazing at the little photograph caused Mulcahey to eyeball the pilot more carefully. Although his flight skills were second to none, Iceberg had always been a weird guy. He was thin — even gaunt; there wasn't a trace of body fat on the man's physique. He worked out on a rowing machine by the hour. His close-cropped hair was gun-metal gray, the eyes black, and the hollow cheeks gave him an almost cadaverous appearance. Mulcahey shrugged and looked away.